Whispers of Velwadi

Tucked between the folds of the Sahyadri hills was the forgotten village of Velwadi. With moss-covered rooftops and crooked banyan trees, it looked like a place suspended in time. People spoke of Velwadi in hushed tones, not because of nostalgia, but fear.

No one dared to live there anymore.

The village had once been lively, filled with laughter, festivals, and fields golden with harvest. But something changed fifteen years ago, the night the rain wouldn't stop and the earth swallowed the temple at the edge of the forest.

They said it began with a scream.

During the storm, the daughter of the temple priest had vanished. Some said she ran into the forest. Others claimed that the earth shattered and vanished. Her father, Vaidyanathan, was never the same. He wandered the streets muttering to himself, clutching a tattered red shawl that had once belonged to Lakshmi. He also vanished a week later. One by one, the villagers left. After sunset, those who stayed started to hear soft voices that weren't coming from anyone who was still alive. They found strange symbols carved into doors, livestock mutilated, and children speaking of a girl in a red shawl who stood in the moonlight and asked them to “come play.”

Velwadi was abandoned by the year's end. Ravi had heard the stories all his life. His grandmother would scold him for even saying the village’s name.

“Don’t speak of the dead as though they sleep,” she’d say, her eyes flitting to the shadows.

But Ravi wasn’t afraid. He wanted a story that would make people remember his name as a journalist for a growing digital platform. So when he found an old map with Velwadi marked faintly in the corner, he packed his bag, took his camera, and set off.

The forest trail was filthy, overgrown, and quieter the further he went. Even the birds seemed to avoid the path to Velwadi. When he got to the village, the sun was starting to set, leaving long shadows on the empty houses and stone paths. The old schoolhouse served as his refuge. Despite its mildew and dust odor, it was sturdy. He set up his camera, took notes, and explored the area cautiously.

He felt it first before he heard it.

A chill that felt like his hands were on his neck. Then came a sluggish and broken "Raaaaviiii..." He spun around. Nothing.

His flashlight was blinking. He put it down to nerves and continued. But the whispers got louder that night as he slept in his sleeping bag. Outside, footsteps reverberated. At first soft, then hurried. Like someone was running. Then nothing. Until a child’s giggle echoed from behind the door.

He froze.

A soft knock and a child's laugh were all that remained. He opened the door.

No one.

But on the ground lay a red shawl.

The next morning, he tried to leave. Thick roots and thorns had replaced the trail he had taken. His compass spun erratically, and his GPS had no signal. He returned to the schoolhouse after circling the village three times. That night, he dreamed of Lakshmi.

Her eyes were closed and her hair was damp as she stood under the banyan tree. She mumbled, her voice shaking, "Help me." “Help me remember.”

He woke up gasping, the red shawl now wrapped around his neck.

The following day, Ravi explored the temple ruins. The entrance had caved in long ago, but something drew him there. He began digging, using an old rusted spade he found near the school.

By evening, he uncovered stone steps leading into darkness.

With his flashlight, he descended, his breath clouding the air. The walls were covered in symbols—circles within circles, eyes drawn with ash. At the end of the corridor was a small sanctum, its idol broken and discarded. In its place stood a mirror.

Old, cracked, and smeared with blood.

Ravi approached. His reflection was warped, but something else stood behind him—a figure in red.

He turned.

No one.

The mirror shimmered. Then, a vision: Lakshmi, tied to a stone, surrounded by villagers chanting. Her eyes wide with terror, screaming as they lowered her into a pit.

They had given her up. Not for gods.

For protection.

From what?

A chorus of hurt and betrayal returned in whispers, now louder. Ravi stumbled out, his mind reeling.

That night, Velwadi came alive.

Doors creaked open. Shadows moved on their own. The wind carried voices crying, pleading.

And at the heart of it stood Lakshmi, her form translucent, eyes filled with rage.

“You saw,” she said, “and now you must remember.”

The villagers had made a pact long ago. A demon of the forest demanded a soul every generation. They offered Lakshmi in the hope that her death would end the curse and save them. But it didn’t.

It only strengthened her. And now, she wanted to be heard.

With visions of each sacrifice, lie, and blood-soaked offering flooding his mind, Ravi screamed while clutching his head. He passed out.

When he awoke, it was morning. Bright, still, quiet.

The red shawl was gone.

He staggered out of the village and found the path clear again, as if nothing had blocked it. Days had passed, though he felt like he’d only been there one night.

He returned to the city and wrote the story: The Ghosts of Velwadi.

He included names, visions, and the mirror as well. It went viral.

But strange things started happening. After reading the story, readers said they heard whispers. One said her daughter stood in the corner of her room for hours, mumbling about a girl in red. Another found the same symbols carved into her door.

As for Ravi? Every night, he dreams of Lakshmi.

Standing at the edge of his bed.

Smiling.

Let me know if you'd like a version that’s more tragic, romantic, or one with a twist ending!